


Fated

by Invictusimpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Jealous Dean, Multi, Rituals, Soul Bond, Unrequited Love, on the road
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invictusimpala/pseuds/Invictusimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is sick of seeing Castiel and Sam make goo-goo eyes at each other, so he takes to the open road. What he finds is unexpected, messy, and unpredictable. He has no choice but to let it define itself, and to let his fate decide his next path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [sharkbitten](http://sharkbitten.tumblr.com)! <3 Ratings, warnings, and tags will change throughout the chapters. Thank you so much for reading, enjoy :)

The bunker’s walls seem to be getting closer and closer together. Dean’s chest burns, and his skin crawls, his lungs go into overdrive, and his heart beats fast. It’s suffocating spending all this time in one place, and he has never been, and will never be, used to having a home to go back to every day after he’s finished with his nightly grocery shopping; his list including pie, beer, and a multitude of vegetables he’s never even heard of for Sam.

He can’t stop the movement of his legs as he twists and turns in bed, biting his nails every once in a while to sate that wild part of him aching to break out, caged in by a home he’s been ostracized from, it seems. Sleep is a necessity he doesn’t have the luxury of having, and that is frustrating in and of itself without everything else going on.

Castiel and Sam have taken over the bunker with their hushed whispers passed between sliding lips, and the rocking of mattresses that makes Dean’s teeth grind.

Trapped in a box, Dean struggles to come up with a solution for the feeling of cabin fever eating at him.

A map is his obvious next step, but obtaining one is difficult, especially a detailed map with roads and rivers painted to show him his way out of the state, maybe even the country. An old one sits in the back of the bunker library, and when the gasps of his brother’s name are getting a little too sensual for his liking, growled so loud even the pillow pressed over his head won’t deafen the sound, he walks as fast as he can down the halls, fingers shoved in his ears so he won’t hear anything he doesn’t need to.

Whenever he passes by Sam’s door, or Cas’ door when they’ve soiled Sam’s mattress too badly to continue their partying there, a sharp jab of what feels like electricity stings and makes its way through his system.

Heart break has never been his forte, usually he’s the one dealing it out, and not the one dealing with it, and the foreign emotions that do come with it are a gift that belongs in a store run by a Cupid and not in his own worn hands.

Getting accustomed to the almost constant pain in his chest is a life feat, not something achieved in a week. Sleeping around doesn’t help, it just makes the pain worse. When he has wounds that need healed left behind by a hunt gone wrong, the shock of grace through his system prescribed by an angelic hand he never wants to hold again is agonizing, almost unbearable. That discomfort is worse than the wound itself, and most times he passes on the finger pointed at him, half way towards pressing against his forehead that’s throbbing with the pain of being so close to the thing he lost — the person he loves.

When they get back from said hunt-gone-wrong, Dean starts packing his bags. He has quite a bit of stuff that he’s gathered from over the years of staying here, and shoving things in his duffle is most definitely not how to do it. He sighs, frustrated.

“Sammy?” He calls, and his brother rounds the corner looking frazzled. The pang and twist of his heart he ignores. “How the hell do you pack a bag?”

“You’re leaving?” He asks quietly after a beat, his shoulders slumping, and guilt makes Dean’s stomach turn.

“I need to get out," he says. "Alone. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be, Sam. You and Cas have a . . . a life now, and I’m not going to play house with you guys forever. You lovebirds are driving me nuts. I need to drive. I need to . . . spend time in old, cheap motel rooms like I always have. That’s home to me — out on the road with the wind blowin’ in from the windows, Metallica blastin’. You always wanted a white picket fence life, Sam, but that’s not me. Have fun here, but I can’t stay.”

“Dean, maybe we could —”

“No, Sam, this is my decision, and I’m happy with it. Can you just show me how to pack this thing?” He gestures to the bag on the edge of his bed, toiletries and clothes strewn about it. Sam struggles for a moment, hesitates before moving forward to fold and compartmentalize Dean’s duffle so he can fit everything in it that he needs. He does it in silence, and the amount of times Dean’s left Sam when he’s upset, vulnerable, is innumerable, and he hopes and prays to God that this is not one of those times.

Sam stands and stares at Dean for a moment before talking.

“Good luck, Dean, I hope you find whatever you’re looking for,” Sam says sincerely before leaving the room with one last pat on the back for good measure. Dean relaxes then and finishes his task.

The car is easier to load up, less stressful. He just piles his stuff into the trunk and into the back seat he’s missed so much. The familiar smell of old leather makes a smile he can’t repress stretch his cheeks. He doesn’t look back as he takes off down the road with a squeal of rubber against broken concrete.

_”I have my phone on me, so call if you need something, anything, I can be here in two days.”_

_“We’ll be fine.”_

_“Tell Cas I said goodbye.”_

_“Will do.”_

A weight previously holding him down harder than gravity is released, and he actually cheers out the window as he tears down the highway above the speed limit by about thirty miles.

When the car’s engine starts protesting he slows down, but he slowly takes his foot off the gas so it happens gradually, so he can enjoy it a little bit longer while also giving his baby a break.

Sandy blond hair gets in his eyes, and the scissors in the back of the car fix the problem, alibi badly. The front is a little too long, and when he swipes his hand in front of his face to wipe the stray hairs clinging, his green eyes glint in the bright sunlight filtering in through the cover of trees above his head.

The sun starts to go down over the horizon far in the distance, so Dean pulls over to rest for the night. The car’s seats are comforting as they press to make lines in his skin he’ll wash away tomorrow morning. Hopefully he’ll have a motel room by then, but staying in the car one more night than planned won’t be too horrible.

He pulls his jacket a little tighter over his chest, and he shifts down in his seat to sleep.

Slumber comes slowly like always, and the cicadas singing happily are a nuisance he struggles to block out.

“Shut up!” He screams, and the sounds die down for about ten seconds before it’s back full force. He sighs angrily, but eventually he falls asleep for a few needed hours.

In the morning it’s just birds chirping quietly, so he’s able to wake up as he pleases, slowly with arms stretching out through the windows, legs spread so his hips pop out and back in satisfyingly.

Groaning loudly, he fits the key into the ignition after changing his shirt, the one previous covered in dust and his dried spit from a deep, well deserved sleep. Driving is his favorite pastime, and he keeps his foot on the accelerator, other hand holding the map up with no set destination in mind.

Roads that wind and twist, narrow and elongate stretch out before him as he makes his way west. He stops several times to get gas, but other than that his mix-tapes keep getting ejected and inserted into the radio over and over, and he sings with his whole heart.

When his voice starts to tire and rasp, and when the sun is going down on his second day out of the bunker, he pulls in front of a dingy looking motel, with the walls crumbling, and the parking spots outlined with white chalk lying in a bucket in front of one of the rooms, the door bent and half folded in.

The walkway under his feet is dirt, and he only just resists taking off his boots to run his toes through it. He misses the earth, the feeling of grass underneath his feet, and the need to keep driving abates when he lays down in the bed and turns on the magic fingers he loves so much.

It lulls him to a dreamless sleep, and when he drives away the next day, the usual pain in his chest fades to a dull throb, and then it dissipates.

For the first time in months he’s able to take in a deep breath, one that makes him shiver and whine it feels so good -- so good it makes his toes curl in his boots that are in dire need of replacing. He does it a few times in quick succession and it makes his head spin.

He debates pulling off to the shoulder so he can clear his head of the fog that’s settled, but he keeps on driving. He’s been mostly alone on the road thus far, and he’s not worried about crashing or running into something as he swerves a little.

After three or so minutes he’s back in his driving mindset, and he settles back into his routine of singing and dancing in his seat a little, toning it down when someone pulls up beside him.

He starts heading into parts of the country where the road is posed on a dangerous cliff, only two lanes wide, really one and a half, and he’s in the half part of that equation. Baby is almost too big to fit, but if he pulls the wheel just right he can make it by the skin of his teeth.

The thick redwoods give way to evergreens eventually, and the air thins and becomes cleaner. It’s getting easier and easier to breathe, to think, and the more he dwells on how he left Sam to his own devices with an angel, the more he begins to panic and work up a needless sweat only kept under control by moderately temperate weather. He debates calling his brother, but then he sees it.

The town he’s just hit has no motel, it’s actually a fairly nice town with a fountain in the center and the good sort of pie that makes his stomach rumble even though he’s had three slices and two beers, so he picks up a room at the Holiday Inn when he’s full and drowsy.

It’s not his usual setting, in fact the portly woman behind the counter gives him a knowing look and demands the down payment there and then. He takes the room on the bottom floor near the fire escape, and yet again she breathes a little heavier, and actually hesitates in handing him the key, makes an obvious effort to not touch him, only holds onto the metal edge of the old, worn down piece of metal he’ll lose anyway.

He makes sure he has a credit card before waving at the woman, strained smile in place. He’ll use it to break back in later.

The room is nice. It has a fluffy carpet that tickles his feet when he walks on it, and the bed is a king, big enough for him to lay spread eagle, totally out, and that night he knows he’s been snoring loudly because only when he wakes up in a pool of drool without any recollection of how or when he fell asleep so deeply and so soundly does he snore. He even forgot to put salt on the windows and a devil’s trap under the doormat; and he forgot his handgun in the car.

He grabs a rifle from his duffle and slowly makes his way to the bathroom, rips open the shower curtain, but there’s no one there. A breathed sigh of relief brings him back to the present, and the stink wafting off of his skin makes him gag.

Brushing his teeth is refreshing, and so is the good, long shower he draws out by taking his time to both shampoo and condition his hair, and to use some of the fancy smelling body soap they have put on the shelf below the shower head he’s almost too tall for.

The water pressure is perfect, just between rain and beating him to death, and he can feel the dirt and sweat dripping off his skin along with it down the small drain on the floor.

When he’s finished he steps out and wipes the fog off the mirror. He slings a towel around his waist and waits for his body to dry off. The scissors on the counter are used to touch up his shabby hair cut job a little better, and by the time he’s done he’s looking as dapper as ever.

When he flexes in the mirror a little, he checks to make sure all the windows are sealed and covered, to make sure he wasn’t seen.

He doesn’t stay in the town for long, he’s on the move and Dean’s not going to settle down here, that’s for sure, but he does linger around the diner. He stops one more time for a pie-to-go before he’s back on the open road, hair no longer whipping in the strong winds blowing in through his rolled down windows.

He drives and drives without any set place to go to.

He ends up in front of an old, worn down shack, and it gives him the creeps, the sort of heebie-jeebies that means he needs to check the place out before moving on even if it is in the middle of no where.

With thigh holster strapped on, he begins to make his way towards the broken down wreck of a place that looks like it could have been something years ago, but he’s not absolutely sure what sort of thing since it’s nearly blown to bits.

The field in front of it is plowed down to dirt, rubble mixed in with sticks and stones in a pattern not found in nature.

He walks slower, quieter, a silent brush of the sole of his heel against dead grasses and weeds.

The door creaks open when he presses on it, and he curses under his breath.

It’s dimly lit, and it smells like death and maybe booze, but he can’t be sure that it’s not him.

His gun only gets to rest in its holster when he’s sure the place is absolutely one hundred percent clear.

Then he begins a more thorough search without fear of turning a corner and being impaled through the chest with a knife, bullet, fangs, anything really.

It’s when he gets up the rickety looking stairs that he really begins to go full hunter mode, only holding back from shooting the next thing to make a sound by a thread count of little to almost none.

There’s a shadow of wings in front of him, black, wide, and most definitely angelic. But there’s not a body in sight.

_Come to pay your respects?_

The voice is so loud it rattles what’s left of the windows and shakes his body and aim off center.

"Who are you?" He yells back and the laugh that’s the rebuttal makes him shudder. He knows that voice. He just can’t place it to a face for the life of him.

_That doesn’t matter now, Dean Winchester._

”Where are you?”

_Stuck between Heaven and earth._

"Are you . . . are you a freakin’ angel?”

 _I would sure hope so. Is that going to be a problem?_ echoes through his head, and he retches as it threads through the sinew of his muscles. He can feel it everywhere, in every part of him all at once, yet also concentrated in one spot, near those wings in front of him.

"Uh, no, not a problem. Am I — do you need my help or somethin'?"

_I have one slice of grace left on this planet, and you, the hunter who singlehandedly started the apocalypse, is offering to help? I don’t think so._

"Wasn’t single handed," he grumbles as he fits his gun into the waistband of his pants. "Do you want my help or not? Final offer."

The voice sighs audibly, and Dean can almost feel it against the back of his neck, a ghost of a touch, of a breath from someone non-living.

He’s dealt with dead people his whole life, both young and old, but for some reason this feels different. Special.

He doesn’t get time to dwell on it.

_Fine. But you’re in this all or nothing._

"I’m all in, man. Anything to help you bastards, right?"

_Mm. You’re going to have to resurrect me._

” _Resurrect you_?” Dean asks incredulously, and the angel laughs again.

He’s beginning to hate the sound.

_Yes, and you’re going to need a lot more than just a gun._

Dean claps his hands together.

“I assume you led me here?”

_You’re smarter than I remember you being._

“If you want my help you’re goin’ to have to be nicer than that.”

 _I never asked for your help_.

“You led me here, I think that’s a pretty big cry for help.”

_You need to go back to the bunker._

“Way to change the subject. Fine, but why?” He asks, and starts walking out to his car. There’s a feeling akin to brain freeze, and he grabs at his head with a strangled gasp.

 _Now we’re bonded_.

“Now we’re _what_? Isn't that a little much for a first date?" Dean shrieks.

_It’s so I can talk to you outside of that God awful shack._

“Fine,” he mumbles, and gets in the car. “All the way back there? Where the hell even is this?”

_Head north, and I’ll tell you where to go if you stay quiet._

Dean shuts his mouth resolutely and puts the pedal to the floor. There’s a constant thrum, a presence, at the back of his mind, but he easily grows used to it after an hour of driving in the direction he was told to.

 _Turn left at this intersection_.

“This will take me south west, then.” Dean pulls to a stop; there’s no one around for miles.

_Turn left or keep going. The way I tell you will get you there in half the time._

“I got here in --”

 _Three weeks. I can get you back to the bunker in three days, and if you go right I’ll sing the rest of the way without stopping_.

“Alright, alright, I’m goin.” He veers to the left as he has been told to, and his shoulders relax as the angel in his head does. “So what have you been doing all this time?”

_Waiting for you._

“How romantic.”

_I saw I was going to die and took my chance at life, which was in you._

“Well, I’m flattered,” Dean bites back and the voice in his head sighs. “What’s your name, anyway?”

_That’s not important now. Turn right._

“No, seriously, I think I have a right to know since you’re in my head now, I should at least get to know your name.”

_That’s not a very equal exchange, I’m afraid. Your head is like a pre-pubescent boy’s bedroom. It reeks, and I’m not entirely sure this was a good idea._

“Look, buddy, if you’re lookin’ for another place to live I can just pass you off.”

_That’s not how it works. I’m bonded to you and only you until we get this thing figured out. At the bunker is everything I will need for the ritual, I just need you to get your ass there so I can do it._

“Calm down, grandpa, I’m drivin' as fast as I can.”

_There’s a motel two hours from here._

“It’s getting dark, man, and I need to change the headlights.” As he says it the light flicker, but then that cold comes back in, making Dean shiver, and when he looks back up his headlights are bright, shiny, and new. “How the hell did you do that?”

_Magic._

While the scratching at his brain doesn’t stop, for the most part conversation does.

“Hey, would you stop diggin’ through my memories? Those are kinda private.”

_Fine, but would you at least turn up the music? It’s getting quite boring in your brain._

“That’s a first,” he says under his breath, but he cranks the music up and starts singing along. Every few miles the angel will give him directions to the next stretch of road, some backroads, but most of them part of the main highway. “It’s getting late, can I stop?” Dean asks between yawns, and the voice in his head sighs for the upteenth time, but agrees.

 _If you must_.

“Great. Where’s the next motel?”

 _About two hours from here,_ the voice deadpans, and Dean almost slams on the breaks.

“What? Are you serious? You said that before!"

_Unless you want to back-track another hour in the other direction, I suggest you step on the gas._

Dean slams his foot to the floor again, and he manages to cut that time in half, making it to the hotel just as one in the morning rolls by.

No one is behind the desk when he rings the bell, so he rings it again and again until someone shows up.

“You better have money for a room, asshole, you woke me up.”

“Sorry for makin' you do your job. I’ll take whatever is on the ground floor.”

A key is tossed at him, and he catches it mid air.

“Thirty bucks a night.”

“For what? This place is a dump.”

“A queen bed, a bathroom with hot water all to yourself. No one else is here, so enjoy. Leave the money on the counter, no need for a down payment if you don’t trash the room.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No --” a yawn interrupts his sentence, “problem.”

“You and me both. Goodnight, sorry for wakin’ you up.”

The old, graying man waves him off, and Dean makes his way down the long line of doors until he reaches number forty two.

_Sleep. I will wake you in the morning at a reasonable hour before we are back on the road. We should make it back to the bunker tomorrow if you indeed took the right turns._

“Really? That’s pretty quick,” Dean slurs around his toothbrush.

_Yes, and there’s a diner with marvelous pie down the street you’re going to want to stop at before we really take off._

“Wait . . . you like pie? I might have you stick around longer than I thought.”

_I rather enjoy it on my days off._

“I bet you don’t get a lot of those.”

_Neither do you._

“Touché.”

_Get to sleep. I can feel your brain rotting from lack of rest._

“Thanks for sugar coating it.”

_Goodnight, Dean._

“Goodnight . . . seriously, man, what should I call you?”

The voice doesn’t respond, and his brain quiets, the headache he didn’t realize he had receding as the angel in his head is silenced.

Pulling the sheets back, Dean starts to climb into bed, and he figures some angelic powers are the cause of him falling asleep so fast.

And he must be hallucinating because he hears a voice right next to him, a ghost of a breath against his forehead as lips are pressed there.

“Rest well, my beloved.”

* * *

Waking up seems like a task fit for a god rather than himself, but Dean manages to untangle his legs from the warm sheets, and his head from underneath a mass of pillows.

 _Good morning_.

“Mm,” Dean groans as he rolls over and hits the floor. “Dammit.”

_You better get packing. I took the liberty of lining the windows, but it’s your job to clean it up. I’ve tired what grace is left, and I require you to head to the bunker as quickly as you can._

“We can still get pie, though, right?”

_Of course._

“Good, because I’d be pretty pissed if we didn’t get pie.”

The angel lets him get dressed and cleaned in silence, and Dean tries to ignore the awkwardness of it, of being watched. The angel could actually only have access to memories or feelings, to speak to him, but then again access to his whole brain also means access to his sight and his hearing, so he holds a towel over his crotch, and he stops humming the pop song he heard on the radio earlier.

The loneliness that had started to creep in is almost gone now, and he moves easier than he did even last night. Though this is all a little strange, and saying it out loud to himself makes his head spin -- he's got an angel bonded to him, someone stuck in his head, looking for a way out, a way back to Heaven, and he has no idea if he's even worthy enough for this whole thing -- the angel seems to think he is worthy, so he stops thinking too hard on it, and starts focusing on picking food out from between his teeth.

A ritual he knows nothing about stands in his way, and resurrecting an angel is a task he doesn't know if he wants notched into his belt.

But the angel laughs at his jokes, likes pie, and doesn't mind the heavy metal stash he has stored, or the bubbly, secret songs he's had hidden since he first started driving the car solo.

Plus, the pain in his chest is but a memory faded with the week's time he's spent on his own, and it seems to get locked deeper and deeper inside of him until he's questioning if it ever happened in the first place, or if it was a figment of his imagination.

A shower is sort of out of the question now, he doesn't want to spend even ten minutes bare with someone in his head watching, listening in on his every move, so he wipes his face down with a washcloth, runs wet fingers through his hair, and calls it good.

While he cleans up the motel room, he whistles a tuneless song to himself and he worries about Sam to keep his mind occupied.

The bunker's probably spotless now, with how both Sam and Castiel clean, his room is most likely gutted and remodeled at this point.

He debates calling home to see how they're doing, to warn them of his return, but he's distracted before he can even reach for his cell.

_We should get moving. You're not going to like what happens to this motel if you stay here any longer._

As the angel says it the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, so he starts to pack his bag back up as quickly as he can.

He throws the key over the desk after he leaves the room spotless, and the roar of the impala's engine is ever-familiar as he pulls in front of the diner six or so blocks down.

He doesn't stay long, only long enough to down some breakfast and to take a piece of pie with him, melting in the box it's so fresh, but it's long enough for him to wake up some, a few cups of coffee in his system.

The bunker's door is seen outside his windshield a lot faster than he thought it would be.

_When you get inside head to the library. The ritual should be in an old tome, or text, and if it's in Enochian I can translate it if need be._

"I'm sure Castiel could too."

 _Castiel is at the bunker?_ The voice asks almost angrily, and Dean has the sudden urge to duck and hide away. He feels as if he's said something entirely wrong.

"Yes?"

 _Are you . . . Are you two together?_ The angel asks tentatively, and Dean scoffs.

"No, no way in hell. He's with Sammy."

 _Sounds like a long story._ The voice in his head sounds less like he wants to blow Dean to bits now, but is still pretty mad.

"Look, we're not together, so there's no story to be told at all."

_I can tell when you're lying, Dean._

"Whatever. Let's just . . . get this ritual thing over with, okay?"

_Then go to the library._

Dean opens the door, and doesn't even think about it, just starts towards the library after dropping his bag back into his room, untouched as far as he can tell.

But then his face is wet, he can't see, and there's a gun against his lower back.

"What a wonderful welcome home," Dean says around a bitter smile, and he uses the collar of his over-shirt to wipe the holy water out of his eyes.

"Dean," Sam breathes. "What the hell are you doing back here? I thought you left for good."

"Nah, I always come back. Besides, I need something."

"What?" Castiel asks from behind him, and the gun is taken away from his skin.

"Just some books. I'll be out in a few."

"Books?" Sam asks incredulously. "What sort of witch screwed you up in the head while you were gone?"

"Hey, I read."

"For hunts. What are you doing? Do you need help?"

"No, I'm fine, just let me think and get settled back in, okay?"

"How long are you staying?"

"I . . . I don't know. Not very long, I don't think. If this whole thing turns out how it's supposed to, then not very long."

"Are you coming back?" Sam asks quietly, and Dean runs over every possibility in his head. There's a slim chance he'll ever stay in the bunker long term if Cas and Sam stay holed up there, even though he misses the place and everything it offers him, but he can't stand being in the same house as Cas. It's nothing against the angel, it's just the pain that's slowly seeping back into his system now. He lets the question go unanswered.

"Let me dry your shirt first." Castiel holds a hand over Dean's chest and with his grace dries his shirt, but in the process has left Dean breathless in the worst way.

 _Get out of there._ The angel in his head snaps, and Dean springs into action. He pushes past his brother and Castiel, panting hard, and he finally makes it to the library in time to sit down before he loses consciousness.

"What the hell was that?" He asks between gasps. He can feel the anger radiating out from inside of him, and he has the urge to punch something -- someone -- but he doesn't act on it.

_Just find the ritual._

Dean combs through page after page and comes up fruitless. Nothing includes anything about how to resurrect an angel.

"Should I move onto Enochian?"

 _I already told you that an hour ago_.

"Well, I'm tired, and I'm not really listening."

 _Your fault and not mine_ , the angel teases, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Tell me when to flip the page."

_It's here. You need to find the blade that killed me, and lucky for you, your resident angel has it._

"Why does Cas have it?"

"Why do I have what?"

Dean rounds on him.

"Uh, your angel blade. I need it. For the ritual." Dean cringes at his delivery.

Castiel glares suspiciously at him.

"There's something off about you."

_Cross your fingers behind your back now._

_What?_

_Cross them behind your back_. Dean does. _Gono_ , the angel whispers, and Castiel relaxes visibly.

"It must just be that I haven't seen you in some time. What ritual are you researching?"

Dean slams the book closed.

"I haven't found anything on it yet. I'm still looking around, but I've found out I need the blade."

Castiel considers it, and then nods.

"I'll be right back." Dean waits for Castiel to return, and eventually he does with something wrapped in old, worn, brown leather. "This is the blade, I hope it is of some use for you."

Castiel shoots one last final glance Dean's way before leaving, and Dean briefly gets the feeling like something is left unsaid.

 _I need your blood_.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm not cutting a vein for you, buddy, there's no way that's happening."

_It's because we're bonded I need your blood, only a few drops, and certainly not now. The ritual can't take place somewhere like this. We need the help of a Rit Zien._

"A zit what?"

_A Rit Zien. They were made as the real soldiers, nothing like little Cassie and I. These angels smite like there's no tomorrow. They're the 'merciful killers', the ones who put the dying out of their misery, and the unjust to a just death._

"So wouldn't they just kill you if you're dying?"

 _I'm not dying, I'm just . . . not at one hundred percent capacity. And this Rit Zien is the One created by Him. This angel was the first to become a killer_ and _a healer. Eventually He, my father, decided she was too powerful a being to live much longer, and ordered to have her killed, whereas I, on the other hand, helped her fake her death. She's harmless, she won't hurt either of us. Besides, she owes me a favor._

"So, what, where does she live? What does she do?"

_She fosters animals in New York._

"New York? That city is _crawling_ with monsters, there's no way we're going to New York. There has to be another way."

_Oh, you'll survive. Come on, it's a hunter's paradise, and Kirae will protect you. Trust me, there's a hundred mile radius no monster wants to walk into lest she smite them. While she may seem gentle, she's as badass as they come._

"How do you propose we even get to New York?"

_By plane, I assume._

"Nu-uh, no way, no planes."

_Well, you can't just drive there, it would take a week at least._

"I can't afford the tickets," he tries.

_Not a problem._

"Come on, you know how much I hate planes, I can't go on one after the last one, and going into _New York_ on a plane? So much can happen I can't be prepared for. You know you can't even take drinks on planes anymore?"

_You're stalling, and we need to get to Kirae whether you like it or not. So, either take a car at the risk of me withering away, or a plane._

"The plane at the risk of me withering away, you mean."

_You're not going to wither away on the plane, Dean. Go online and purchase the ticket. You'll find that seven hundred dollars has been wired to the credit card in your pocket, and an additional two thousand will find its way there when I return, but when I do I can just fly us back here._

"That'll be nice. Why can't you just . . . I don't know, grace me to New York?"

_Because you have my grace, but you don't know how to use it, so there's no point in trying. Plus you're human, and if you tried you'd implode._

"Sounds better than flying," Dean grumbles as he pulls up travel sites on Sam's laptop. "Here's one for six hundred and thirty seven."

_That'll do._

"Great, it leaves tomorrow, so I should be there late at night which means we can see Kirae sooner than I thought."

_Go sleep, Dean, we can talk more in the morning._

"I'm not gonna argue with that."

Dean finishes his nightly routine before changing into sweatpants and nothing else. The feeling of his sheets and bedspread against his skin is one of the best feelings in the world, and tonight he needs nothing to help him sleep, he falls almost immediately into the darkness.

His dreams don't make any sense. There are bright flashes and sounds so loud he's on the verge of waking up the whole night but something keeps him under, probably the angel.

Fire sparks and a building catches with someone inside, the outline of a figure he doesn't recognize.

Another person leaves the premises almost as quickly as joining, and then it's too bright for him to see much of anything anymore.

Screams of agony make it even harder for him to stay unconscious, and he wakes in a sweat, wings imprinted on the back of his eyelids. He blinks a few times in quick succession to clear the image.

"Oh good, you're awake. Cas said something about you leaving town today?" Sam asks, and Dean blinks his eyes so they can adjust to the low light of his room.

Sam stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, expectant look on his face.

"Jesus, give me time to wake up before you start asking questions."

"I thought you were awake already, sorry. Where are you headin' off to?" Sam walks over to his desk where the ticket is, tucked inside of an old book, but of course he finds it just as easily as Dean hid it. "New York?"

"Yeah, I have some friends there, I thought I'd take a little vacation."

"A vacation that includes the need for Cas' angel blade?"

Dean winces.

"Uh, yeah, about that --"

"Look, I don't need to know. Just . . . be careful. Cas and I are both worried about you running off, and I'm not trying to keep you here by any means, but please don't get yourself killed. And calling every once in a while would be nice."

"I'll try, but no promises. I think I'm going to have my hands full with everything there."

"I heard the subways are crawling with vampires, don't get bitten."

"Yeah, yeah, will do. Should I bring you back a souvenir?"

"One of those skimpy little tee-shirts will do. Oh! Or underwear. Either way."

"You got it. Hey, do you want to help me pack my bag again?"

"Sure, since you know, you can't take guns with you. And how are you going to smuggle the angel blade in?"

"I've been told the metal detectors won't pick it up."

"Whatever you say."

Three hours later and Dean is sitting in some airport outside of a town he doesn't recall the name of. It was written on the front of the building, but the nerves threatening to crawl back up out of his throat in the form of his lunch are too distracting for him to really focus on much else.

Sam dropped him off a while ago, but he can’t bring himself to check in until it’s almost too late.

Throughout the beginning of the flight he's as stiff as a board, and immediately rushes to the little bathroom in the back of the cabin as soon as the small light signalling for him to keep his seat belt on is turned off.

Splashing cold water on his face seems to help, and he holds a chilled, shaking hand to the back of his sweating neck.

_I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that right?_

"You could have told me that earlier so I could hold you to it. I'm about to have a damn panic attack if this plane doesn't land soon."

_Let's see, it should take about three hours to get to New York. It's a non-stop flight. Why don't you take a nap? I'll keep you under._

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'd like to see the sun one last time if this thing ends up falling out of the sky."

_It won't, but if you insist._

Dean leaves the bathroom when someone knocks on the door telling him to hurry up, and he rushes back to his seat, stomach still churning.

The flight seems to take forever, easily the longest three hours in his life, and when he gets off he only just resists kissing the ground.

The air in New York is thick, and the sounds are loud, the city beyond the airport bustling with a good day's work, quieting only just as the moon comes up over the horizon.

He gets his luggage from the baggage claim and starts walking.

"Motel?"

_Go to Kirae. She'll house us for the night and tomorrow she'll help with the ritual if you play your cards right. You'll probably get a mouthful of pet dander, but it'll be for me._

"How tempting."

_It's either that or no sleep._

"Fine, but now you owe me."

_I'll owe you an explanation, that's for sure._

"Where is this place, anyway?" Dean asks, changing the subject.

_Near here. I had to hide her lest someone find her, such as Him. New York seemed good. There are so many people always on the street, and it's too loud for anyone to pick up on anything she may be putting out if she smites or heals anyone. Turn here, her apartment is on the sixth floor._

Dean looks up at the tall, battered building with a sigh.

"Well, here goes nothing."

He buzzes the button with a K on it, one of the only rooms labeled, and the speaker crackles to life almost as soon as she touches it.

"Hello?"

_Tell her Gono sent you, and that I need her help._

"Uh, hey, I'm Dean. Winchester? A Mr. Gono sent me, says he needs your help."

The line is silent for a long time, and when he next looks up the front door is open. He heads up the stairs to the room the angel in his head said to go to, and he knocks. That door too opens on its own, but what’s behind it isn’t promising.

Two large dogs, with their canines sticking out and dripping with drool lurch his way, and Dean, out of habit, pulls the angel blade from his bag without thinking.

“Oh, good, you have it! Back off, you two.”

“Kirae?”

“That’s me, now come on, we don’t have much time.” Dean follows her past the dogs that have calmed to a back room she already has prepared, it looks like. The room is dim, and on a table in the center of a circle of salt is a candle and an incense stick propped up on a stand. Another thing sits beside it, but Dean can’t make it out. She holds a bowl and a knife out to him. “Fill the bottom of the bowl in a thin layer, nothing too much, then step into the circle with the blade. This is where I tell you you're going to be this angel's only earthly tether, and he's going to be mostly human."

"It's fine, we should start. I can figure it out later."

Kirae moves to the center of it, and lights the candle.

He does as he’s told because he can’t feel the angel at the back of his mind any longer.

Dean pokes the tip of the blade so he can cover the bottom of the mortar in blood, then he steps into the circle.

A wave hits him as soon as he does, and his head spins.

“Dean, quickly, he’s fading. Sit down and dip the edge of the blade in your blood, then draw a Devil’s trap on this mirror, but don’t touch it.” Although a million questions are racing through his mind, Dean stays quiet and completes his job meticulously. “Hold the mirror in front of your face, and relax. Don’t try to see your face, but look for the face of Gono. You must relax, do not tense. Clear your mind.”

Dean closes his eyes and breathes in and out for a few moments before staring into the mirror.

His own wrinkled eyes stare at him, and his brow furrows.

“ _Relax_ ,” Kirae breathes, and the image in the mirror starts to shift the less he does, and he drops it when it glows red hot.

“Ouch!” He yells, and shoves his pointer fingers into his mouth. When the mirror shatters his hands fly to cover his face, a blinding light making him squint as someone new joins the circle.

“Ah, Dean, long time no see. Did you miss me?” Balthazar asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ritual inspiration found [here](http://www.spellsofmagic.com/spells/spiritual_spells/summon_spells/2132/page.html).  
> [My Tumblr](http://www.invictus-impala.tumblr.com)  
> I am taking prompts there, if you're interested :)  
> (More info on that [here](http://www.invictus-impala.tumblr.com/prompt-info))


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah, Dean, long time no see. Did you miss me?” Balthazar asks.

_Yes_ , he wants to breathe, but he stops altogether as he takes in what’s going on.

“Don’t all speak at once. Kirae, it’s lovely to see you again,” Balthazar says, and pulls her in for a hug and a kiss to the top of her head. “How are things here in New York?”

“Fine,” she says shrugging. “Could be warmer.”

“Mm, I thought as much. I would make the sun come out, but alas, I have no more grace. We should get back to the bunker --”

“Again? We . . . I . . . are you serious?”

“I’m afraid so. As much as I’d like to stay here,” he says casting a glance Kirae’s way with a friendly smile, “we should be going.”

“By plane?

“‘Baby’ is out on the street, don’t worry. I’ve always hated all the spirits lingering here in the city,” Balthazar says, and he shudders theatrically.

Dean rubs at his eyes and tries not to yawn or groan at the thought of having to drive more, especially on four hours of sleep.

“Thank you, Kirae, again. It’s my time to owe you.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll come around if I ever need anything.”

“Please do.”

Dean lingers around the doorway waiting for Balthazar to finish up whispering to Kirae. He leans against the door jamb, nodding off every few minutes, and when he becomes too bored to stand straight, he goes to find Balthazar. He pauses when he hears their voices getting louder.

“You have to tell him, Gono, you have to. It’s not fair for you to be keeping such a big secret from him, especially where it concerns him.”

“I can’t, Kirae, and you know why. As much as I’d like to stay, I can’t.”

Dean rushes back to where he was standing, and he has time to stand against the door like he had been five minutes before. He controls his breathing when Balthazar walks by him unsuspecting.

“Well, we better get going if we want to beat the morning traffic.”

“Yeah, and you’re explaining everything to me on the way.”

Balthazar holds up his hands in surrender, and Dean leads the way out.

“So, how exactly does this whole . . . thing work?” Dean asks, getting into the driver’s side of the car while Balthazar gets into the passenger seat.

“I can’t be very far away from you, but that’s miles and miles between us for an extended period of time.”

“Great.”

“Mm,” Balthazar hums thoughtfully, looking out the window. “It’s nice to see the world again, and not through your eyes.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And anything else?”

“We have to find my Fated.”

“Your _what_ now?”

“My Fated.”

“That’s what I thought you said, but then I remembered we’re not in a freaking Nicholas Sparks movie.”

“It’s actually much better than that. A Fated is a mate an angel chooses.”

“A _mate_?” Dean replies incredulously.

“Yes. Well, yes and no. Someone who is Fated is picked by an angel to house a piece of their grace. It joins the two pure souls so wholly that they become one for a split second, and then the human takes the piece of grace from the angel, but the bond between them both has to be clear.”

“What does that mean?”

“There can be no lies between the two, and no secrets. They have to be willing to be one with each other.”

“But I have your grace in me, so --”

“We’re not bonded. The whole process is a lengthy one that requires a Union ceremony.”

“Ah.”

Dean ignores the pang in his chest.

The rest of the driving they do that night is in silence.

“I have to get some sleep, man. You go do angel stuff, or whatever, I’m sleepin’ here,” Dean says. He pulls the impala off to the side of the road and nods off within minutes of parking.

The next day Dean wakes up in the passenger seat of the impala in front of the bunker.

“Woah, woah, woah, how the hell did we get here?” Dean grumbles, waking suddenly, and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes so he can see if he’s alone, but he’s not.

“I drove us here.”

“You drove _my car_?”

“And that’s a problem why?”

“You were in my freakin’ head, dude, you should know why.”

“Well, my apologies. We should get inside, no? I expect your brother should be waiting for us.”

“Brother, my ass, still need to check if the car is intact,” Dean grunts, but he gets out of the vehicle anyway, heading straight for home.

The door opens when he presses on the metal of it, and he begins to walk down the familiar entryway into the rest of the bunker.

“There’s an angel here, stay in this room and don’t move,” Castiel’s voice echoes down the hallway, and Dean watches Balthazar roll his eyes. Cas rounds the corner with a gun cocked awkwardly between his unpracticed hands. When he spots Dean and Balthazar he turns at them with a determined look, but then it softens.

He looks Dean up and down as if searching for wounds, but then he looks like he’s too distracted with his companion to care anymore.

Castiel keeps the gun pointed their way.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, staring right at Balthazar, training the barrel on him.

“Ah, Cassie, long time no see.”

“You disappeared,” Castiel says, and Balthazar’s eyebrows raise.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“We’re not doing this here.”

“I think --”

“Dean?” Sam interrupts, and the tension leaves both their shoulders. “How come you’re back so -- _Balthazar_? What the hell is he doing here?”

“Calm down there, bucko. I brought him here because he needs our help.”

“With what, exactly?” Castiel asks, still not lowering his gun. Dean walks over and grabs it out of his hand with a sigh. He lets their skin touch for a little longer than necessary, but he moves back over to Balthazar when the metal of the gun is safely in his hands.

“He needs help finding his Fated. Something about his last sliver of grace. Yada, yada, yada. I’d love to tell the whole story to you, but I need some food. And some booze. And, like, ten years of sleep.”

Sam and Balthazar lead the way to the kitchen, but Castiel pulls him aside.

“Dean, we need to talk.”

“‘Bout what?”

Cas pushes him into the library.

“Why did you bring Balthazar here? And more importantly, why did you bring him back to life in the first place?” Castiel asks, staring Dean down, but Dean stands strong.

“I never said he died, and I never said I brought him back to life.” Other than a brief flicker of panic in Cas’ eyes, he doesn’t falter. “Well, it’s too late now. He needs to find his Fated to be an angel again, and I’m just the unlucky bastard who has to help him with it.”

“Fine, but I don’t have to like it.”

Dean shrugs, and he brushes Castiel off in search of food. He follows the scent of meat cooking, and he finds beers open on the table.

“Now this is the kind of family reunion I can get behind.”

* * *

Balthazar watches Dean laughing heartily from across the table, and he offers up napkins whenever Dean needs them, which is frequently enough for him to need to acquire a stack.

And over the next few weeks, Balthazar continues to eat at that same table with the same three people. Sam is nice enough around him, and Balthazar can ignore the passing glares shot at him.

But he can’t ignore Castiel’s icy looks, and he can’t ignore Dean’s heated ones towards said angel.

It’s infuriating watching his Fated staring at another angel like that when it should be _him_ Dean’s looking at.

Balthazar resorts to avoiding Castiel entirely in favor of following Dean around, especially after their last encounter.

_”Does he know?”_

_“Does he know what?”_

_“Do he know I killed you? Does he know you’re his Fated?”_

_“No. As much as I loathe you, Castiel, I know how he feels about you.”_

_“Good.”_

He’s taught how to shoot a gun, and taught how to fight like one of the infamous Winchesters.

He almost feels honored.

A month into his stay at the bunker and yet he’s still no closer to getting Dean to fall for him. He leads both Sam and Dean on false trails full of made up lies on where his Fated is, and each and every time there’s a hunt in the city they stay in, and they end up getting side tracked. So, it buys Balthazar some time both away from the bunker, and away from Castiel.

Sometimes the rogue angel will tag along to watch over Sam and to keep him company, and those are the hunts Balthazar hates the most. Usually when it’s just him and Dean, and even with Sam around, Dean chooses him to have watch his back, him to keep an eye out for them.

But when Castiel is there, forget it. Dean’s all over him like some lovesick puppy. It makes Balthazar’s stomach turn.

One night, late into the morning, they finally arrive back at the motel from the worst hunt yet. Dean’s banged up beyond belief, and Balthazar’s still running on his adrenaline high. He doesn’t quite remember who instigated, but one moment he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, and in the next Dean’s under him, almost completely naked.

Dean’s panting so beautifully, little breathy whines of Balthazar’s name that just for a moment, just for a second, he pretends it’s just them; that there’s no Sam and no Castiel.

For a minute he pretends that Dean knows, that Dean knows he’s his Fated, that they’ve mated, and that has him rutting against Dean.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, and suddenly it all comes lurching to a hault. “Shit, Bay, I didn’t --”

“I understand,” he says, even though he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand why Dean doesn’t love him, but he won’t push. “You don’t want this,” he states, but Dean shakes his head.

“I do, please. Help me forget,” Dean begs, and what is a man to do when the love of his life begs so prettily?

“As you wish.”

“Did you just quote Princess -- oh, son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean whines as Balthazar takes his cock into his mouth. Dean fists his hands in Balthazar’s hair, and pulls him down so far he chokes. “Sorry, sorry, just got a little excited,” he breathes, and Balthazar laughs.

“Take what you need,” he replies, and Dean does.

He takes and takes and takes until Balthazar has nothing else to give. Dean pulls him in after Balthazar’s pulled the condom off and come twice, and they lay there in each other’s arms until the sun comes up.

They don’t talk about it in the morning, but they don’t avoid each other, either. In fact Dean seems more inclined to stick by him the next day than anyone else, so he pats himself on the back when no one’s looking.

Blowing off some steam seems to have helped them grow closer.

Resting is what they do for the duration of the afternoon. Hunts seem to come and go pretty slowly, and so far it’s been a slow day, so Dean and him pile onto the couch and watch old reruns of some Spanish soap opera Dean is intent on keeping up with.

“So,” he says during the commercial break. “I know you explained it to me before, but would you mind explaining it to me again, because so far we’ve got jack on who the hell your Fated is, and maybe with some extra information I could, you know, get the ball rollin’ or whatever.”

“I can’t tell you who they are, but I know who it is.”

Dean splutters.

“Then why the fuck didn’t you tell that to us _three months ago_?”

“Because three months ago I didn’t know,” he lies, but Dean doesn’t buy it.

“Why don’t you just confess and get it over with?”

“I said there can’t be secrets, yes? Between them and me is a secret that could make them hate me.”

“Balthazar --”

“Hey, guys, there’s a case near here, sounds like the old salt and burn, but you never know. Do you want to check it out, or was I interrupting something?”

“No, you weren’t,” Dean snaps, and he gets up before either of them can say anything else.

“What crawled up his ass?” Sam asks when Dean’s out of the room.

“Who knows, I sure don’t want to.”

As it turns out, an entire high school was set on fire in March, and in May the same school was set ablaze again.

“This isn’t just some ghost we’re dealing with, I think we’re dealin’ with something a lot worse,” Sam says when Dean and him come out from where they were talking to the cops at the station.

“What do you think it is?” Balthazar asks. “If it’s not just some ghost --”

“I think it’s a god if not an arsonist,” Sam says.

“What kind of god? Please tell me it’s not or I’m going to be pissed.”

Sam types on his laptop while Dean drives them away, and Balthazar watches them both closely.

“Uh, yes, it . . . it actually is a fire god.”

“Damn it,” Dean curses. “I’ve had it up to here with gods and angels, no offence.”

“Offence taken,” Balthazar says under his breath.

“I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think we’re dealing with the Roman god Vulcan.”

“Who?”

“Vulcan, the god of fire.”

“Great, so we’re putting down Spock, that’s just fan-freakin’-tastic.”

“It won’t be that bad. Just a little water, I guess?”

“We’ll do this tomorrow, I need to get some sleep.”

The motel is another hour’s drive away, but they make it there before nightfall, and both Sam and Dean crash. Balthazar takes the couch while the brothers take the two doubles, but he doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t sleep much anyways, and especially not these days. Not when the image of the handprint Dean used to sport of his shoulder haunts his memories.

Not when the only good memories he has with Dean are that one night they spent together, and since then Dean’s been only friendly towards him.

And he doesn’t sleep because with Sam in his bed is also Castiel, his _murderer_.

He’s gotten used to that rotten feeling in his gut, but when Castiel is around it grows worse.

Being almost-human is a horrible thing because he only gets half the experience, and it seems to be that his body has decided to pick and choose only the worst of those experiences, such as anxiety and guilt that makes his gut churn.

So he spends the entire night wide awake tossing and turning, and he tries not to pay too much attention to Dean’s warmth that he can feel across the room as if reaching out towards him.

Sam wakes before everyone else, and Balthazar pretends to be dreaming while Sam tip-toes around the room gathering weapons and bottles full of holy water.

When Dean gets up that’s when everything really takes off, and they start packing up to leave.

“I don’t know if they’ll work,” Sam says, handing Balthazar two bottles, “but it’s worth a try. I have a summoning ritual all ready to go about a mile away from here, and Cas can --”

“I’m staying behind.”

Silence falls on the room.

“What?” Sam asks quietly.

“I’m staying behind. I have other matters to attend to, and it sounds like you’ve planned this out thoughtfully. I’ll see . . . all of you back home.”

And then there were three.

“Well, I guess that settles that. Balthazar, you’ll take the rear of the warehouse, and Dean and I will split up inside to cover everything else.”

The warehouse turns out to be nothing more than a shed as big as a bedroom, but Balthazar takes to watching their backs despite it.

“Not that you need me,” he grumbles.

“Hey, we’ll always need you,” Dean replies, and warmth spreads over Balthazar’s chest.

However, Dean’s face is not reassuring, and he doesn’t return Balthazar’s smile.

His eyes widen, and his jaw drops, and that’s when Balthazar hears the slick sound of a blade being pulled out of his chest by a Roman god that leaves just as fast as he arrived.

“Oh,” he gasps.

He falls to the ground with a thud, and the whir of screaming voices around him blur together. Dean cradles him in his lap calling for Sam to come and help.

“Get your angel boyfriend down here! Do something! Save him!” He shouts.

Balthazar doesn’t feel pain in the same way he assumes a human does, but then he remembers he can’t just heal. He’s not immortal anymore, and Castiel would never heal him in a million years. Not if he was the last of two angels on Earth.

“Dean,” he gasps, and he coughs up blood in the process. Dean helps to calm him down. “Dean,” he says again.

“Shush, don’t talk, we’ll get you out of here, okay? You’re fine, you don’t need to talk.”

“Dean, please listen.” Pain rips across his body as his grace dwindles down to nothing, and he calls out. “Dean, it’s you,” he pants out between coughs.

“What’s me? I’m right here, it’s okay. Sam, seriously, go get the car, call an ambulance, something. My best friend is dying here and you’re just _standing around_!”

“You,” Balthazar whispers, and he uses the last of his strength to cup Dean’s cheek with a bloody hand. “You are my Fated. Your soul is the one I choose to love.”

His hand falls slack, and the world turns black.

* * *

Dying is not how Balthazar would have imagined it to be. It’s not like the first time it happened. It’s not cold like it was the first time.

Here he’s warm and content, floating up on a cloud where he can stretch his wings out and fly between Heavens. He could stay here forever, he decides, but he’s not given that option.

“Wake up, Gono, wake up.”

Balthazar’s eyes snap open, and he inhales a lung full of air a little too quickly. His world spins and if it weren’t for the bed under him he’d be falling.

“Where am I?” He croaks.

“You’re in the bunker.”

“Where’s --”

“He’s right here,” Kirae says, pointing to where Dean is slumped over, sleeping in a big armchair. “Now,” she says, annoyed, “I just want you to know that both of you are idiots. Total and complete morons. I told you to tell him the truth back in New York, and now look at you.”

“You saved me?”

“I did, and I won’t do it again if you don’t tell him _now_. Go on, only good things can happen from here on out.”

Balthazar blinks, and then she’s gone, and Dean’s sitting bolt upright, totally awake.

“Bay,” he whispers when he sees Balthazar awake, and he rushes to the side of the bed, frantically checking if he’s alright.

“I’m fine, Kirae healed me.”

“Thank god. We need to send her a muffin basket, or something,” he breathes. “Do you, uh, do you remember what you said? Back at the . . . back at the warehouse?”

“You mean back at the poor excuse for a tool shed? Yes, I do.”

Dean smiles, and then they’re kissing. It lasts for a few blissful seconds, but then Dean’s jumping away, holding his mouth and cursing as what feels like electricity flows between them painfully.

“What the hell?”

“I told you there’s a secret, I can’t be with you like this.”

“Then freakin’ tell me so I can kiss you.”

“As much as I’d like that, and believe me, I do want to kiss you silly right now, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d hate me forever, and I couldn’t live with myself if you did.”

“I could never hate you. _Tell me_.”

Even though the risks are so high -- Dean is undoubtedly going to hate him forever, and he’ll lose everything -- his Fated deserves the right to know.

“The identity of my killer is the secret.”

“Big whoop-di-doo, just tell me so I can kick their ass.”

“Castiel.”


End file.
